The Plunge
by izzygone
Summary: Dear god, John thinks because he is not turned on by the idea of an audience. Particularly if that audience is his flatmate's brother. He is not. Across from him, Mycroft nods in acknowledgment, "John," he replies before turning his attention back to Sherlock, "shall I make my own tea, then?" (Companion Piece to "The Slope" and "The Cliff")


A/N: This is the final piece (probably?) in my dark!Sherlock series, The Spiral. Each part can be read separately though this one contains just a touch of background information about John and Sherlock's unusual relationship.

Also Mycroft is in it. Because Mycroft is sexy. The "Holmes-cest" is pretty mild, though. It's all Holmes-to-John contact, not Holmes-on-Holmes, I promise.

Oh, and this wasn't beta'd (as usual). If you notice mistakes, let me know :)

Warnings for abusive relationships, incest-esque activities, mentions of drug use and suicidal thoughts.

* * *

"You little slut."

John pauses what he was doing – taking a set of mismatched tea cups to the sink for washing – and bows his head, looking at the floor as Sherlock continues smoothly down the stairs, like a cat on the prowl. John has no idea what brought on this latest and sudden bout of belittlement, so he just waits. Sherlock always explains eventually.

"I bet you enjoyed that," Sherlock continues, slinking toward his prey caught in his trap between the sitting room and the kitchen, "You must have had him so _flustered_ with all your flirting and teasing."

John still doesn't know what Sherlock's on about, but he knows better than to ask. He just waits.

"God, look at you, so perfectly confused," He's circling John now, a shark smelling blood, "How long have we been doing this, John? And you still don't realize _you can't hide anything from me._"

John keeps his eyes downcast; he doesn't dare try to sneak a look at Sherlock. He still has no idea what the detective is on about, but he knows that much is true – he can't hide anything from Sherlock, and, since the night with the gun, he hasn't even tried.

Sherlock ducks his head to look at John's face, "God, you really are thick; I don't know how you cope. Honestly, every day I struggle to stop myself from just putting you out of your misery." Sherlock's voice is laced with disgust, poisonous words spewing out his mouth and John has to really remind himself that Sherlock would never really hurt him. Not on purpose, _god_, not really, "Lestrade!" The detective finally shouts, groaning it out like John should have realized ages ago what this was about, "You think I didn't hear you? That I wouldn't notice your shameless flirting? God, he must be so frustrated to be rattled up like that and know you're just a little cock tease. He's probably having a wank right now, right outside our front door."

But now John is just more confused. Lestrade had been here, yes, getting John's statement for a case they just closed. He and John talked about football. Lestrade invited him to come out with the boys from the Yard for Saturday's match. John made an excuse, said he's busy, which is true -Sherlock liked to experiment with erotic asphyxiation on Saturdays. He definitely doesn't remember flirting with the inspector. Then again, Sherlock observes better than John. Maybe he saw something John couldn't.

Suddenly, Sherlock is far too close to him, and John automatically flinches, squeezing his eyes closed. Sherlock grabs his chin, forces his face up and John reopens his eyes in time, he hopes, before Sherlock sees the hesitation there. Of course he sees it – didn't they just discuss that he sees everything? – but he doesn't seem mad. He actually seems a little amused, "Oh, don't feel so guilty," – only Sherlock Holmes could interpret an involuntary flinch as the reaction of a guilty mind instead of a scared one – "I know by now what a filthy little cock slut you can be," he continues, his voice lighting up like perhaps he's planning some that's _a bit not good_, "I should punish you… but," he adds dismissively, "I really can't be bothered right now. Perhaps I'll think of something later," He lets go of John's chin, which immediately drops so the doctor is staring at the floor again, "Make some tea, won't you? I've got work to do." He turns away, moving back toward the sitting room to grab John's computer.

Slowly, John comes back to life. Slowly, he can feel himself ready to move again. He sets the mugs in the sink, switches the kettle back on and tries to ignore that he offered Sherlock tea just 15 minutes ago, when he'd been making some for Lestrade.

Sometimes John sits in his room for long periods of time with his gun pressed against his temple.

He doesn't plan to use it, but it's comforting that he could. It hasn't crossed his mind in a long time that he could use it on Sherlock. It hasn't crossed his mind for months that he could get himself out of this situation with one swift motion with his trigger finger.

Sure, when he first came here, he thought about it all the time.

Well, maybe not at _first_.

At first it had been glorious. At first, it had been fast paced and exciting and _wow, this man is brilliant_. But the steps from _this is brilliant_ to _this is dangerous_ to _I need to get out of this_ to _how could I live without this?_ Are a little scrambled in his brain.

It was the cases, initially, the mental and physical stimulation. He'd been so alone, so bored, so _desperate_before he met Sherlock. He'd been half a man, unknown, unneeded, unwell. With Sherlock, every day, every moment, was an adventure. Forget boredom, forget loneliness. Cases took his mind off all those silly human emotions, took him away like morphine.

Then it was the attention. _God_, the way Sherlock looked at him, the way Sherlock needed him. The way he talked to John constantly, even when he wasn't there. The way he relied on John for everything, from picking up milk to providing a scope through which to view normal human behavior. With a man like Sherlock needing you, how could you find time for anything else? How could you want anything else?

Then it was the sex. God,_ the sex!_ At first, John didn't think he wanted it, but Sherlock could be so _convincing_. And pretty soon, John loved it. Filthy, obscene, rough and even violent – everything his former relationships had been the opposite of. But John is an army man, violence is in his blood. So is the desire to obey orders. Is it any wonder Sherlock had him folding over the armrest of the couch with a mere glance after just a few weeks?

John knew, then, he was getting himself in too deep. He'd stopped returning calls from his former friends, former army buddies, even his own family. He was so wrapped up in Sherlock, in the cases, in the sex, but he recognized the symptoms. Every time he tried to go out, tried to communicate with the outside world and Sherlock stopped him, he knew, he _knew_things were going too far. He knew Sherlock had too much influence over him, but something stopped him from leaving every time. Sherlock would apologize, maybe. Make sweet, slow love to him and whisper how he needed John, how he couldn't live without his blogger.

Once, he drugged John and locked him in the upstairs bathroom for three days, kept him complacent, lacing any food or tea he brought up with more and more drugs. John convinced himself he was sick. Sherlock would come in, sooth him, bathe him, fuck him, until finally he forgot entirely how he'd tried to leave.

A few times, Sherlock despaired, threw himself about the flat; talked about how he would go back to drugs – how he might just give up and die if John left him. John tried, god, he tried, but the one time he did leave, he got a call from Mycroft not two hours later; Sherlock in the hospital, OD'd on something fierce – might be dying. And Sherlock cried, actually wept when he woke to John by his bedside; swore, like he always did, that he'd treat John right this time.

One time, Sherlock cursed him, told him to leave, said he didn't even care. And John did leave, then, only to find he had nowhere left to go. No one else would even have him; his friends, his family, all forgotten about him or angry with him for abandoning them. John had been the one crawling back that night, begging Sherlock to take him back. The look on Sherlock's face that night burned into John's mind. The detective's face lit up like Christmas. He'd taken John back. Fucked him until John couldn't even breathe. Forbade him from leaving the flat without permission ever again.

Pretty soon, John stopped trying to get out. Pretty soon, he was only going out with Sherlock at his heels. Pretty soon, he was a captive in his own flat. And a willing one, at that.

But still he sits in his bedroom, gun to his head for hours at a time. Part of him hopes maybe he'll slip. Maybe he'll accidentally blow his own brains out. Maybe he'll fall asleep, his hand will move, fingers with automatically grab the gun, he'll accidentally squeeze around the trigger.

Sherlock opens the door to John's room, sees the gun against John's temple and laughs. "Come downstairs," he says, "I've thought of a solution to our problem."

John lowers the gun, opens his mouth to speak, but Sherlock is already gone.

John lifts the gun again. Maybe he'll do it. Maybe he'll pull the trigger right now just to spite Sherlock.

Instead, he puts the gun back in the drawer. Swallows with some difficulty. Thinks, _next time_, and walks downstairs.

Sherlock is back on the couch reading an article and doesn't seem to notice John's slow approach down the stairs. John thinks maybe he moved for nothing until Sherlock says, "Bend over the coffee table," without even looking up at him. John wants to say _but it's Thursday_. _Mycroft always comes over on Thursdays. In fact, he'll be here in fewer than 5 minutes. _Still, John walks over to the coffee table, bends over, balances his palms against it and waits.

He feels Sherlock caress his arse through his trousers, "I've been thinking about earlier, about Lestrade," John's never heard Sherlock speak about any person other than himself with such disgust, "And I understand, you need more." John's breath hitches in his throat, how could he possibly take more? More of anything? John's life, John's body is full, always full – full of Sherlock, "And I'm going to give it to you, you filthy little cock slut."

He tugs at John's trousers, moves them deftly and swiftly so they collect at John's knees. John curses internally at the sudden cold, but doesn't make a sound aloud. Internally, he's screaming _but Mycroft is coming! He'll be here any second!_

John knows Sherlock can't read minds, but he's about 99% certain Sherlock knows exactly what he's thinking. Still, the detective moves slowly, caressing up and down John's naked buttocks and thighs. Licking his lips and still talking, though about what, John is clueless. As soon as Sherlock has his fingers rubbing in the cleft of John's arse, John forgets how to listen. Behind him, Sherlock stands, licks his own finger, presses it back against John's entrance, and John sighs – it feels good just because he's used to being touched there and Sherlock hasn't actually touched John's rim in 3 days, but it's a little dry and that worries the doctor. He wonders if Sherlock plans to dry fuck him. It hurt so badly last time, he hadn't been able to properly sit for days. Then again, John had deserved it since he'd smiled at Donovan.

John can't imagine what punishment accidently flirting with Lestrade will warrant.

Sherlock laughs again, "God, you're so tense," John wants to remind him why, but he doesn't. He knows so much better than that by now, "_Relax_," He says lazily, his finger tracing john's rim in alternating gentle semi circles, as if it's the easiest thing in the world, "I'm going to fuck you." Sherlock's leaning over John now, whispering in his ear, "I want to remind you who you belong to."

John shivers involuntarily and can already feel himself growing hard – though, let's face it, he started getting hard as soon as he bent over. The idea of Sherlock possessing him completely, owning him, is not a turn on for John. It is not.

Sherlock pulls his hand back and slicks his finger with more saliva before returning it tentatively to John's aching hole. His motions are lazy, teasing, almost gentle despite his earlier words, but John only tenses more. This sweet side of Sherlock is an act – one John knows all too well but falls for every time nonetheless. Without warning, Sherlock plunges his first saliva-slick finger into John's arse and John stifles a groan and hisses instead. Behind him, Sherlock chuckles and rubs his free hand gently across the meaty part of John's buttock; it feels like a caress but John only tenses more because Sherlock has backed up a bit, keeping his finger inside John but giving him enough room to – "_smack!"_ Sherlock's hand comes down painfully on John's pale skin, making it redden and John involuntarily grunts. It hurts, but not nearly as much as it could because Sherlock caresses his hand over it, soothing the inflamed skin. John braces himself for more blows, but none come. He wants to say something. He wants to ask… _is that it?_ Or maybe _please just one more_? But Sherlock's slow exploratory strokes with his slippery finger are a distraction and John's starting to lose himself and even, perhaps, forget that this is supposed to be a punishment. Inside him, Sherlock nimbly twists and crooks his finger, making John cry out from the sudden pressure on his prostate. Sherlock says nothing and pulls his finger out as suddenly as he inserted it. John whimpers but doesn't move because he hears the detective shifting behind him, searching to couch cushions for – ah, there it is, and the click of the cap on the bottle of lube is audible and John, like Pavlov's dog, starts to pant with excitement. _God_, Sherlock has him so well trained, how did this happen? But that's not what John's thinking about. He's thinking _was that the door downstairs_? And he's straining, searching for signs that Mycroft is right outside the flat, about to walk in on him bent over a table and begging for cock.

Not that Mycroft doesn't know why his brother keeps the old soldier around.

But if Mycroft entered the house, he's being very stealthy and taking his sweet time coming upstairs. John decides he must just be hearing things and immediately forgets his concern because Sherlock's fingers are back inside him, two of them this time, pistoning in and out, the slickness making it easier for Sherlock to manipulate the sensations. John closes his eyes and savors the teasing prodding at his prostate; there's no need for Sherlock to stretch or prepare him – his body is accustom to being used and never fully recovers enough to need that – so John considers this a special treat. Sherlock could have just bent him over, slicked his cock and shoved right in without a single consideration for John's comfort – just considering the possibility of Sherlock doing that (like he did four nights ago when John bought the wrong brand of biscuits) makes John's cock pulse and harden completely, letting out a thin band of fluid that he doesn't think about because the idea of being used does not turn him on. It does _not._

John is relaxing into it now, unable to fight the urge to push backward, meeting the rough thrust of Sherlock's finger which are alternating between shoving and twisting and curling and _oh god_, there's sparks in John's eyes though they are pinched shut, and he's trying to regulate his breathing but he _can't_, god, he just can't because, _fuck_, now he really does want cock as badly as Sherlock always says he does. He wants the detective hard and inside him and _more, more, more_ because these teasing fingers aren't enough. Sherlock grips his hips harshly from behind, slowing and then stopping John's movement before "_wack!"_bringing his hand down on John's buttock again in a harsh spank. Oh, right, John thinks, this is supposed to be a punishment, "Don't test me, John," Sherlock's voice is throaty and low, a reminder to John just what he does to the detective – even though Sherlock would never admit it.

The sound of Sherlock's zipper coming undone and the rustling as he pulls his cock from his pants is audible in the empty flat and John's throat goes completely dry. He has no idea where Sherlock will go from here; he tries to review previous punishments but none seem to line up with this one which has started so... pleasantly.

Then the door to their flat swings open.

Instinct takes John over momentarily and he desperately wants to hide himself, but Sherlock grips his hip tightly with one hand and holds him in place. John stops himself from turning his head toward the door. There's no point in looking – seeing the look on Mycroft's face won't make it any easier to handle.

Of course, if the government official finds it at all unusual or disturbing to walk in on his younger brother furiously fingering his flatmate's arse, he makes no outward acknowledgement of it. He does John a kindness, though, and closes the door behind him.

John ducks his head and bites his lip as Sherlock brings another slap down on his already sensitive arse, never once fully removing his probing fingers. He does, however turn and acknowledge Mycroft saying, "Ah, brother, you're late."

Mycroft nods and makes a noncommittal noise, "I was delayed by Mrs. Hudson upon my arrival. I apologize."

Sherlock seems to accept that and perhaps he and his brother have one of their silent conversations because without hearing a word about it, John notes that Mycroft moves around past him and takes his place in the chair that is normally John's - the one Sherlock binds him to when he suspects John of considering going outside without permission. John refuses to look up across at the civil servant, desperately holding back moans as Sherlock twists and crooks his fingers, nudging them against John's prostate in a way that whitens his vision and would ordinarily have him begging for release.

Another heavy smack comes down hard on John's arse, and he knows it should burn but the burn of his embarrassment outweighs that pain and Sherlock says to him, "Now John, don't be rude. Say hello to our guest."

_Oh god_, and now John can't look up, the shame and embarrassment is going to boil him, cook him alive where he stands. Sherlock spanks him again, the sound of the hand hitting flesh so loud, it seems to echo in the otherwise silent flat, and removes his fingers in a swift motion which causes John to whimper and let out a gentle sob, "John." Sherlock repeats, firmer and in his impatient voice.

With more courage and effort than he's ever put into anything in his life, John lifts his head, only just able to see Mycroft sitting across in the chair, his hand clutching his umbrella, through his lust-filled haze, "Mycroft," John chokes out in a greeting. To his surprise, as he says the name, his cock twitches and juts out a fresh stream of precome. _Dear god_, John thinks because he is not turned on by the idea of an audience. Particularly if that audience is his flatmate's brother. He is not.

Across from him, Mycroft nods in acknowledgment, "John," he replies before turning his attention back to Sherlock, "shall I make my own tea, then?"

Behind John, Sherlock has been silently lubing his cock, smirking at his cool and collected brother. Without warning - as usual, John thinks - Sherlock suddenly shoves forward, burying himself into John who lets out a deep and feral moan, "As you like," is Sherlock's icy reply.

"Very well," Mycroft says, standing and doing a fantastic job of ignoring the fact that his brother has his head tipped back, slowly gliding in and out of the doctor bent before him. And they're both still mostly clothed.

John hears the click of the kettle as Sherlock starts moving with unnerving restraint. Each elegant slide pushes his cock just a little further into John and then back out, scraping along his glands teasingly. John bites his lower lip because, god, that feels like heaven and Sherlock has never done exactly this before. Sure, he's had John bent over and spanked him while they fucked, god, who knows how many times, and yes, Sherlock has fucked him slowly, made love to him almost – if John didn't know better than to think of it like that – but both at the same time? To be both bent over and abused _and_slowly and sensually fucked… well, every day is something new with Sherlock in his life.

Sherlock continues this slow rhythm for some time – how long, exactly, John loses track in the muffled grunts and the _oh god, right there, yes more_– before bending over, his clothes heavy and scratchy against John's flushed skin, his tall frame allowing him to stay inside the doctor while whispering into John's ear, "You want more cock, right?" He asks, his breath hitting John's ear in a way that is so sensual, it makes him blush even more, "Well, here is my solution. Obviously, I can't let anyone else have you but… well, this is as close as you'll ever get to having two of me."

Oh _fuck_. And John is shivering and feels feverish, maybe drugged. Sherlock can't be suggesting what John thinks he is –

"Oh Mycroft," Sherlock says, standing and turning his attention toward the kitchen while John clamps down on him suddenly in nervousness, making the detective expel an unexpected breath for which he slaps John again, playfully, "Switch that kettle off and join us, why don't you? I have something for you that is far better than tea."

From the kitchen, Mycroft makes that same noncommittal noise, "Better than tea? How unpatriotic of you, little brother." Still, John hears the kettle switch back off and Mycroft re-approaches the sitting room.

John keeps his eyes and mouth resolutely closed. This is not happening. _This is not happening. _He's dreaming; he must be dreaming because, _fuck,_this cannot be real. Things like this don't happen in real life to real people. If he just keeps his mouth shut, if he just doesn't move or breathe or open his eyes, this will all disappear. He'll wake up. He has to wake up.

But Sherlock thrusts forward suddenly and in rapid succession, the teasing against John's prostate no longer teasing but harsh and good and fuck, John could come from this. Just a few strokes of his still flushed cock – fuck, shouldn't his erection be deflating? God, what is wrong with him – and he would come right here, right now.

Behind him, Sherlock and his brother must be having one of their silent conversations John is never privilege to, more so now because his eyes are squeezed tight and he's starting to lose higher brain functions from lack of air as he refuses to breathe or even exist. With a raised eyebrow, Mycroft speaks, acknowledging some sort of agreement that passes between them, "Well, I suppose that would be better than tea… and very patriotic, after all."

Sherlock nods, pausing his motions and replying, "For Queen and country." He leans back over John, "I want you to be very attentive to my brother," He whispers, more hot breath on John's neck, ears, face, "And try to imagine it's me fucking your face, too. Imagine it's me all over you, you'll enjoy it more that way."

This isn't real. _This isn't real_, John reminds and reminds himself. He can't see, everything is black with his eyes tightly shut like this and the wood of the table below feels harsh on his wrists and his shoulder is starting to ache and – "John." Sherlock says. It's a warning. Finally John nods and Sherlock leans back so he's standing again, giving John an approving pat on the back, "Good boy."

John tries and fails to stifle automatic swell of pride whenever Sherlock praises him like that – condescendingly, like he's a pet. But then again, isn't he?

Sherlock resumes his gentle thrusting, the aching prodding returns to John's prostate and it's all he can do not to cry out. Before him, he hears the gentle "_click-click-click"_ of a button being undone and a zipper lowered. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Mycroft is right in front of John's face now and _oh god, please no_, this isn't happening and John wants to refuse, he wants to say Sherlock would never allow this, but clearly Sherlock is allowing it, maybe even wants it and who is John to deny Sherlock anything?

But there's something wrong here. Something, so, so wrong. They're brothers, for gods sake. They can't be doing this… together. John wants to speak out, wants to say this can't even be legal, but he knows better. He knows so much better by now than to try to escape any punishment Sherlock chooses for him. And the ease with which they reached this point, the smoothness and complete lack of negotiation leading up to this moment indicates to John perhaps this isn't the first time they've done something like this. Oddly, the thought heats John; fills him with completely unjustified jealousy. _What the fuck is wrong with me?_He wonders.

John feels Mycroft's hand on his head – oh god, Mycroft is that close; John can't, _can't_ open his eyes but he knows Mycroft's cock is right in front of his face – and goes absolutely still, his body resisting the inertia of Sherlock rocking lightly against him. Mycroft says, "This suit is bespoke, Doctor Watson, worth more than your entire pension. Do be careful not to salivate on it," his fingers touch John's chin and apply upward pressure, tipping John's face up toward him and _fuck, how did we get here?_ "Open up, my dear." When and how and _when_ did Mycroft's voice get so low, so seductive? So very… un-Sherlockian? John finds himself unable to resist the command which sounds so kind, so _reasonable_in that voice. He drops his jaw but doesn't open his eyes. Somehow, he knows it will be so much worse if he actually sees what he's doing.

Part of him is expecting the abruptness, the complete lack of restraint of Sherlock, and he's surprised when Mycroft's prick doesn't immediately consume his mouth. Instead, there's a soft nudge against his lips and John feels the precome as it coats his upper lip. Cautiously, he sneaks his tongue out to taste it. It's salty and just a little sweet and John moans because some part of him likes this – loves the sinful taste of cock and sex and come and _oh god_, now he's thinking about come down his throat and the satisfying feeling of knowing he has control over someone else's pleasure. Fuck him, but now he does want it, more cock, more of this, whatever it is. How does Sherlock always know?

Hesitantly, with the exploratory curiosity of a newborn kitten, John extends his tongue – still unwilling or unable to lift his eyelids, though no longer straining to force them closed – seeking out more of Mycroft's unique taste. The government official obliges, inching forward against John's mouth as Sherlock comes to a stop behind him, watching with unguarded curiosity as his favorite fuck toy explores the only other cock he's ever seen. It's heady and thrilling for Sherlock, whose impatience and excitement John can actually feel. The world seems to hang in the balance for a moment, waiting to tip to one side or the other as John licks, brushes his tongue against the vein on the underneath of Mycroft's erect prick, tugging out a low growl of approval, and then, finally, enveloping the head in the moist heat of his mouth. Unbidden, Mycroft inches onto his toes, seeking out more heat and John takes the hint, licking and sucking and taking Mycroft in deeper.

Satisfied with the results of that little experiment, Sherlock starts moving again. It's slow at first, like before, filling John to the point of bottoming out then dragging his cock out with purposeful laziness, the head stroking and rubbing against John's prostate and causing him to whimper with need of it before slamming back in causing John to groan into his filled mouth.

And god, John feels full. Sherlock and Mycroft automatically sync up with their thrusts – a fact that further substantiates John's deduction that this is not a _just-this-once_ kind of thing – alternatingly filling and emptying him so one moment he's brimming, cock-jammed in both mouth and arse, and the next he's terrifyingly vacant, unable to decide whether to cant backward or forward, unsure which part of him he needs filled _right now_. It's torture on John's mind and body as he twirls his tongue over Mycroft's heavy cock and involuntarily coos with the brushes of Sherlock's prick over his glands.

He doesn't want to open his eyes except that he does, he really does but there's no point because he can't see what he wants to see – that is, the exchange above him, between the two brothers. Do they have their eyes closed to? It seems unlikely because nearly of them would voluntarily miss a moment of observation time, but they're right across from each other… are they watching each other? Are they watching John? Are they planning something, communicating silently as they often do?

It appears to be the later because without warning, they are both moving with more urgency. Sherlock's bollocks are slapping against John's still-sore skin and the pressure against his prostate is building while Mycroft is urging forward, hitting the back of John's throat. _Fuck_, the sensation is too much, and John knows if he could just touch, if someone, something, _anything_touched his aching, neglected, fully hard and swollen cock, he'd come. God, his orgasm is a tide held back by levies of cracked glass – a gentle breeze would break him, but Sherlock doesn't touch him – never touches him except in his fantasies and way back, so long ago when he was still wooing John, when he was still brainwashing him – and John can't move himself, if he shifted at all, stability would abandon him entirely and he'd topple – he has absolutely no doubts that both Holmes would let him fall without a single thought except that it might interrupt their own pleasure.

They're both getting close – John is in tune with Sherlock's orgasm so much that his body starts buzzing. His excitement for it is palpable, the very idea of it may push him over the edge because he wants it, god, it's like he lives for the moments Sherlock comes inside him. And Mycroft is much the same, by knowing Sherlock, John recognizes the signs in Mycroft too, the tenseness, the abandonment of the reserved façade. They've stopped syncing now, both trapped in their own desire for release and the tension is overwhelming for John. Sherlock's angle is just right; he's hitting John's glands with every stroke so John is choking out muffled moans and he feels moisture on his face – tiny tears slipping out the corners of his tightly closed eyes as Mycroft's thrusts deprive him of a steady oxygen supply. Both Holmes create a strange, lust-filled chorus of muffled grunts above him as they both withhold their passionate outcries. John strokes at Mycroft's cock harder, with more purpose, tonguing the slit with extra pressure, judging by what Sherlock enjoys. He suckles, swallows, sucks harder and rubs at the slit again and _oh god yes_, Mycroft is gripping his hair roughly, tugging at it and yes, coming into John's mouth, spilling out onto his tongue and John shakes with need of it. Why, _fuck,_oh why does come taste so good to John? He's sure he never would have found such a taste to be pleasant before he met Sherlock. With strange desperation, John continues to swallow, lapping up every drop and cleaning it from Mycroft's cock as he withdraws a little unwillingly from John's eager mouth. His hand cards through John's hair, petting him in silent appreciation.

Sherlock hasn't given in so easily, though. He's gripping John's hips harshly with both hands, pressing in to leave his favorite kind of bruises; those which no one can mistake for anything but what they are – branding. His breath is ragged and John alternates clenching his muscles, in an effort to encourage Sherlock's release as well as his own. Sherlock slaps him again across the side of his buttock as a warning and John tries to be patient. The strokes against his prostate have turned from teasing to painful to burning to smoldering to _oh god, please, fuck, Sherlock, I need you, please,_but he doesn't speak a word aloud. He knows better than to interrupt Sherlock's concentration with an irritant like his voice. There's a gentle huff-like cough above him and John tenses, his body is so ready, so desperate for Sherlock's release. Even if John can't touch himself, he might come just from the heady satisfaction of Sherlock's come filling him.

"_Fuck_," Sherlock says aloud, heaving forward, releasing into John's willing arse. He doesn't stop his motions entirely but cants forward and back, milking himself as far as he can handle before pulling out and releasing his grip on John's hips simultaneously so John drops with unrealized weakness.

John is still hard, though, erect and at a boiling point. God, fuck, he's burning to be touched. Instinctually, he moves his hand from its grip on the table, reaching to stroke his own cock but stops. Sherlock hasn't given him permission. Reluctantly, John peels his eyes open to meet Sherlock's stare which tells him everything he needs to know – _don't you dare_. John's hand drops. He leans collapsed against the coffee table. He lets his hands lie across it, useless as his cock pulses, sticky with precome, flushed and ready for a release that may not come tonight.

In front of him, Mycroft has already adjusted himself. John may look – and be – thoroughly debauched, but the elder Holmes is nothing if not fresh and put together. No one could guess from the smoothness of his pressed trousers that not two minutes ago, he had his erect cock down his brother's lover's throat.

Finally, Mycroft clears his throat and snatches his umbrella from where it leans forgotten against the chair, "Well, I really must be going."

Sherlock, who, too, has rearranged himself to look moderately put together, nods, "Can't keep the Syrian resistance leaders waiting, not when there's a civil war to accelerate."

Mycroft's reply is a tight smile and John realizes the brothers are already back to their normal rivalry. Not that John is at all surprised. Without a glance down, as if he's put off entirely by John's defiled state, Mycroft moves to the door and acknowledges them with a nod to them both, "John. Sherlock," and with that, the door opens and he disappears.

John sighs and squirms, still bent over and collapsed upon the coffee table. He can feel Sherlock's come starting to trickle down his thighs and he's simultaneously torn between a desperate desire to scrub and shower it away and the strange desire to insert his anal plug to keep it inside him for just a little longer.

Sherlock makes the decision for him though, saying in his disgusted tone, "Get up." He nudges John with his foot as if John should have popped up with renewed energy and readiness but instead forces himself up with deliberate slowness, trying to ignore the ache in his shoulder. Sherlock's eyes run over him and the look of distain on his face is poorly masked. He motions John forward with a single universal hand gesture and John's breath gets caught in his throat again. He's too scared to get his hopes up of Sherlock touching him but god… please god, maybe Sherlock will let him touch himself? The detective is reaching into his pocket though, pulling something out as John approaches. It's small and round and – John is too slow and weak he doesn't have time to realize until Sherlock is touching (oh god, Sherlock, skin to skin, _fuck_) him, holding him still as he slides the cockring onto him. It's tight and _oh fuck_, now he'll never be able to come. Sherlock leans against him, speaking directly into his ear again, "Go clean yourself up," His voice is laced with repulsion, "You're disgusting. And don't take that off."

John knows he's gaping. God, he can't speak but he can't move either.

"Oh don't look like that," Sherlock says, back to his bored tone, "You can't really think I'd let you come after that." John is still confused, though, he thought he did everything Sherlock asked, "After you touched my brother? You filthy little slut, you know the rules."

John drops his eyes. Yes, he knows the rules. He's never allowed to touch anyone but Sherlock. He wonders idly, as he turns to trudge toward the shower, just what his punishment for this will be.


End file.
